Oh, shit.

Literally. I just spent my fourth night in Kansas City scrubbing shit off the floor of the bathroom. Incidentally, it was not even my own shit. Not, of course, that I do such things. And even worse, not even not my own nevershat shit, but likely the shit of a teenage boy. Which teenage boy I can't say, but I feel confidant that the sheer revoltingness of this age group overwhelms any semblence of difference between shits.
So, I'm sure you'd like to know why this happened. About to go to bed, I head to the bathroom and notice that the toilet is not flushed. I flush it. It doesn't flush back.
Then, I try plunging it with what appears to be some sort of bellows that is sitting behind the toilet that I have never ever seen before. It looks like this:

Please note that it probably holds two liters in there.

I plunge away for about 30 minutes with no success. Meanwhile Michael calls. He is hard to follow. I decide, hell, let's just flush and see if it's ready. Wrong. It begins spewing all over the rather large bathroom.

I get off the phone with Michael. My mother wakes up. I am furious about having to use such a worthless plunger. Mind you, and my past roommates will vouch for this, I am a masterful and fearless plunger. But this job eluded me.
Instead, I ended up scrubbing shit off the floor.